What's in a face?

My interfaith travels took me to the Boston area for a few days last week. I arrived at Logan airport around noon, proceeded to pick up my baggage, and head out to get a cab. Except that I didn't see any cabs. So I stood with a number of other passengers waiting for a taxi to come by when I was approached by this man.

"Excuse me, Sister?" His accent for thick. Moroccon, I thought. "Excuse me ,Sister? Where do you need to go? I have a taxi," he gestured for me to follow up. I nodded and followed him a short few yards and we stopped at his shuttle. "How much will this cost me?" I asked after having told him of my destination. "Seventy dollars, Sister." I didn't really negotiate as I had been told by the hotel to expect around that much. "Alright," I said. As he took my bag to load into his trunk, he looked at me for a few seconds. I saw the question lingering in the space between us. And then it was finally spoken: "Sister, Where are you from?" I replied, knowing full well that this wasn't the answer he was looking for, "I'm from Chicago."

He persisted. "No, where are you from?" I smiled, "My parents from South India." He hesitated, his eyes never leaving my face, "India?" "Yes," I replied. "Are you Muslim?" And again I replied, "Yes, I am Muslim." Why the hell would I be wearing this peice of cloth on my head if I wasn't? He smiled with relief. "I am Muslim too... Assalamu alaikum!"

"Wa'alikum assalaam."

Eight years ago when I started wearing hijab, this sort of exchange would have totally made my day. Interacting with a fellow muslim in this big strange world. What identifies us in this brotherhood of Islam was my hijab, his accent, and the exchange of peaceful blessings between us. Nowadays, I mostly find it amusing or exhausting.

Let me explain. So you see, I have a face that cannot be easily categorized into an ethnic group. I was born into a South Indian family, but my skin is "fair complexioned" as the Aunties would say (apparently it was "light as milk", I was told by a suitor a few years ago). Before hijab, most people couldn't really tell where I was from. I remember, when I first moved to the suburbs of Chicago and began attending public school, for a week I was followed by a Palestinian student & a Mexican one. Both were members of the rival gangs at my high school, and were in pursuit of recruiting me to join their circles. Of course it all ended with disappointment, when they both figured out that I was neither Arab or Mexican. Some of the ethnicities I would frequently get labeled as were: Persian, Arab, Latino, Italian, & Kashmiri.

So after about 10 minutes in the shuttle, the friendly driver turns off his radio, and put's on a CD of the Quran. It was the 30th, Juz al Amma. I thought I recognized the Qari (reciter) and asked him if it was Saad Al-Ghamidi. "No sister, this is Shaykh Al-Meshari." We made small talk. He asked about my family, along with informing me that I totally didn't look indian about every 5 sentences. "Yea, I get that a lot" I said each time. Thankfully, we reached my destination soon after he informed me that he had just gotten married 2 months ago to a girl back home, because there was "too much temptation in America".

On the way home from this trip, my cab driver to the airport was once again a Moroccon. We did the whole routine again. Let me write down the condensed version: Where are you from sister? Chicago. Where are you really from? My parents are from India. Are you Muslim? Yes. And your from India? Yes I am. You don't look Indian at all! Yea, I get that a lot.

So once we had gone past this conversation, came the more interesting one. "Do you travel a lot sister?" No, not too often I said. "That's good. Some of these women, they travel everywhere by themselves. Women should be in the home, not travelling city to city." I don't remember signing up for a Khutba about my responsibilities as a woman, but I guess that came for free with this ride.

Finally, I was back at Logan airport. Waiting to board my flight. I wanted to grab something to eat and get a bottle of water. I was walking around the food court when I saw the man behind one of the counters. He smiled. I smiled back. Here it comes, I thought. And then....

"Where are you from?"